The Broken Wall-- An Il Neige and Channel Awesome Fan-fiction
by chookster95
Summary: The last Fourth Wall in existence has been destroyed, and the villains of the world's movies are wreaking havoc in our world. The only one who can trap them all back in their respective realities? Disgruntled internet reviewer, Il Neige, with some help from his fellow reviewers from Channel Awesome.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: (Just skip straight to the story if you can't be bothered reading this. It's just disclaimers and notes about the story itself and whatnot, probably only interesting for all one of my acquaintances *cough* my brother… *cough* who even knows what Channel Awesome is.)_

 _Ahem. A quick disclaimer before we plunge straight into this new story. As you may have guessed from the title, it is, in fact, based on one of my all-time favourite internet reviewers on the YouTubes: a certain Mr. Il Neige. As this Mr. Neige is indeed a real person, I cannot lay claim to being his creator, nor the creator of his wonderful show 'What We Had to Watch'. Yes, it is on Channel Awesome, and yes, the rest of the CA crew will no doubt be making appearances at some point during this story. Perhaps even some of my other favourite YouTubers who have nothing to do with reviewing but are equally awesome...? We shall see._

 _Now, if there's one thing I'm known for on story publishing sites like this, it's my reliability to be completely unreliable in any sort of uploading schedule. I write when I feel like it, and I publish when I feel like it. Although I am more eager to write if I get reviews, so…? *winks* Haha. I'm joking, obviously. Read if you want, review if you want, don't if you don't._

 _And Il Neige, if by some miracle you ever come across this… hi._ _*waves and grins shyly*_

 _Okay, enough stalling. On with the story._

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

The front door of the Burger King joint opened with a _bang_. The chair that had been wedged under its handle scraped across the linoleum floor on its side, smashing into the counter and making the person hiding beneath it jump. Quickly, heart pounding, he schooled himself into total stillness. His fingers tightened around the handle of the only weapon he'd managed to grab before fleeing his home: a sword. It was his prized possession, and had it not been the direst situation of his life, he probably wouldn't have taken it. As it was, however, he studied the woven blue hilt, tried to let the sight of the winged pommel guards and the Triforce engraved on the base of the tapered blade lend him some modicum of calm.

 _What would Link do?_ he asked himself over and over again as footsteps echoed softly past the threshold of the restaurant. A long, misshapen shadow rippled on the menu above him as the intruder grew closer. _Oh, God, what would Link do?!_

"Come out, come out, wherever you're hiding." The voice was deep, male- teasing. The person behind the counter shut his eyes when he recognised it; for a split second he was more irritated than frightened. His fear quickly returned, however, when a ball of electric green light shot above his head, igniting the empty kitchens in a blazing green inferno. The drinks machines were blasted off their counters, and he had to duck under a shower of drinks cups and kids' meal boxes.

"I know you're in here," the intruder hissed gleefully. "I can smell every _ounce_ of your fear."

The person under the counter gripped his sword tighter, doing his best to ignore the sizzling cardboard melting into green puddles around him. He'd have to do something soon. If he stayed here and the intruder found him, he'd be dead for sure. Surely he stood a more fighting chance if he jumped out now, with the element of sur—

"Perhaps a truce can be arranged if you save me the trouble of searching for you," the voice went on. His shadow moved on the menu; it shrank, shifted to the left. Chairs scraped across the floor. He was looking under the tables. "You are, after all, the reason my fellows and I had this marvellous opportunity to explore your world."

A sliver of guilt sliced through the mounting panic. The man was right, of course. It was all his fault this happened. Perhaps it was time he tried to do something about it… Breathing heavily, but silently, through his nose, the person shifted to his knees, made to crawl out from under the counter.

"As such," the voice continued, "I'm prepared to offer you a place amongst our ranks. You could have this land for your own, if you wished."

The person paused mid-crawl. America… could be his? He had to admit, on the face of it, it was a pretty tempting offer. It did sound much nicer than living on the run in the burning ruins of California, living off scraps other survivors hadn't touched from bins and restaurants and grocery stores, sleeping on his own in empty houses and garden sheds, hoping against hope those whom he'd released into the world wouldn't track him down for just tonight, just one more day.

A flicker of green light illuminated the menu. It made the burgers in the pictures look like they'd been sitting in the sun for a couple of weeks, right next to a family of skunks. His heart sank as he saw it; clearly, everything the intruder was saying was a bluff. Shaking the last remnants of stupidity from his ears, he scrambled around the counter on his hands and knees and peered out from around the edge. The intruder had his back to him, his gloved hand outstretched to push open the door of the men's room. His black robes brushed the floor, and the red jewelled collar caught the light of the flames cupped in his other palm. Short salt and pepper hair was sticking up in dishevelled little spikes around his head. In fact, the person noticed, his entire wardrobe seemed a bit tattered. The hems of his robes were torn, and as he shifted forwards, a bare, dirty foot was exposed underneath it.

Despite his heartbeat hammering in his ears, the person couldn't suppress a little grin. Like the man was in any position to offer him the entire country; from the looks of things, he was barely managing to keep his own place in this shattered remnant of the world.

The men's room door swung shut behind the man. The person took the opportunity. Scrambling to his feet, he lifted his sword to his middle, tip of the blade pointing forward, and rushed towards the door. He fully intended to burst through it, swinging madly, hoping against hope that surprise alone would lend him enough time to hack something vital before the intruder got in a shot of his own.

The door swung open just as he reached it. The man's wicked grin seemed to fill the entire world.

"Not very talented, eh, Mr Neige?"

Blind panic took over. He wheeled backwards, barely managing to deflect the fireball zooming towards his face with a wild chop of his sword. It shot into the back wall, blasting apart one of the wide windows. The intruder laughed and advanced; Neige stumbled back, feeling his heart in his throat as the rim of a table pressed into his spine.

"Why me, Profion?" he said weakly. _Talk. Stall. Don't give him time to kill you,_ he thought desperately _._ "Like you said, it's my fau—because of me you're all here. Why do you want to kill me?" His sword trembled, its tip pointed at Profion's eyes. The mage barely even seemed to see it.

Another fireball had been growing in his Profion's palm, but it simmered into a something resembling a flickering pilot light as he lowered his arms.

"Why?" Profion sneered. "Why do you suppose the greatest mage in a millennia would bother himself with a pitiful commoner?"

Neige, his eyes raking across Profion's grubby foot and tattered robes, opened his mouth to say he really had no idea, but Profion continued smoothly across him.

"Do you think just anybody has the power to break down the walls between fiction and reality? Imagination and sensibility? You have power, boy."

The blade stilled suddenly. "Hey, I'm twenty-five."

"I won't be the first, either. The reward set for the return of your corpse has risen exponentially. Thirty thousand gold pieces, in Izmer currency. Though," he paused, his own dark gaze taking in Neige's unwashed sandy hair, dirt-smudged face and clothes and exhausted eyes, "I suspect you deduced as much for yourself."

Neige licked his lips, readjusted his grip on the sword hilt.

The tiny flame in Profion's black glove fizzled into nothing. His wicked smile deepened, and he raised his arms wide, the dusty and torn sleeves of his robe flapping like bats' wings as he stepped away. Neige hardly believed his eyes when Profion actually turned his back on him, continuing to ramble.

"Imagine the power you could wield against us, then, if you were left to your own devices. My villainous brothers and sisters and I were treated like outcasts in our own worlds, left to rot or die horrible deaths. Now, thanks to your doing, we are all free to live lives outside the constructs of good versus evil where evil loses _every damned time_. Now, because of you, we stand a chance of _winning_."

His arms were still high up in the air. He was talking to the wind whistling through the broken window. Neige couldn't believe this opportunity that was being presented to him. Carefully, so as not to draw Profion's attention, he raised his sword in a stabbing position.

"And," Profion continued, fire stuttering to life in his gloved palm once again, "we can't risk you sneaking up behind us and stabbing us in the ba—"

The sword came plunging down before the fire even had a chance to grow. Profion howled as it was buried up the hilt in his exposed back; he stumbled forward, falling to his knees, attempting to clutch at the blade that had pierced him clean through.

Neige breathed heavily, staring down at his trembling hands. They were smeared with sticky blood – _black_ blood. On the ground, a pool of the stuff was growing around Profion's writhing figure.

"You think you've won, little commoner?" Profion hissed, choking on some blood that dribbled down his chin. "You think killing me will be the end of all this?"

Neige watched the mage's skin drain of colour, watched his breathing become laboured and his gloved fingers grow slippery on the sword's blade. A little bit of bravery was starting to seep back in. He hitched a small smile onto his face.

"Well, if everyone else is as stupid as you, then yeah. I'll have the world fixed by next Tuesday."

Profion tried to chuckle, but only ended up choking on more blood. "You're more irritating than those obnoxious thieves who defeated me in my own world, boy," he hissed.

Neige's eyebrows shot up. Frowning, he bent down and tugged the sword out of Profion's back, wincing only a little as the mage howled in pain.

"Hell no," he said, wiping the blade on his already damaged Nintendo shirt. "You did not just compare me to those idiots. I'm out of here." He slipped the blade back into the sheath dangling crookedly from his hips and stepped around the growing puddle of black blood, making his way to the door.

"You're going to leave me here to die, boy?" Profion spluttered. For the first time, there was a note of panic in his voice. "Not very _noble_ of you- for a _hero_."

Neige didn't stop walking. The door was already open, swinging on its hinges in the light breeze blowing down the deserted main road. He reached it and turned back, his hand resting lightly on the busted doorhandle.

"By the way, Profion. It's not 'boy'. It's Il Neige."

Profion just stared silently after him.

He'd barely turned back to the road when there was a loud _bang_! from inside the restaurant. He spun around, but there was nothing to see; only a lingering pool of black goo and the smoking remains of an empty set of robes.

Swallowing determinedly, the young man known as Il Neige touched the pommel of his sword and set off into the broken world.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Yay! Chapter two is here, for all… one… people who actually clicked on it, lol. Oh well. My fondest dream (well, one of many on my extensive list, at any rate) is that il Neige himself will stumble upon this and lavish heaping praise upon my wordcraft… Or, more likely, he'll just crack up in a (an?) hysterical fashion. *shrugs* Never mind. To quote our great anti-hero Ned Kelly's last words before being hanged on November 11, 1880: Such is life. (Yay for Australian settler history!… said nobody, ever.)_

 _Oh, also: prepare for Pokémon*. Enjoy. Or not. I know I'm pretty much writing this for myself right now. Good writing practice, amirite? Right? Anyone…? *sighs as a tumbleweed blows past* We don't even have those in this country…_

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO**

Neige had never seen the usually clogged highways of California so quiet and motionless. Still cars were scattered all across the four lanes in various states of disrepair; most of the ones that weren't on their side or sprouting weeds on grassy patches at the edge of the road had their doors thrown wide open, some with windows shattered and paint gouged off in wide stripes.

Neige sidestepped one car that was balancing on its left-hand tyres; the ones on its right side had melted under what looked to be a particularly powerful blast of fire. Scorch marks had damaged several of the cars, obviously causing some to rocket off the edge of the road entirely into the scraggly brown brush.

He shifted his Legend of Zelda backpack higher onto his shoulders, trying to ease the constant burn the straps were wearing into his shoulders. He probably shouldn't have filled it with such useless crap when he rushed out of his house after the Fourth Wall shattered. But, to be fair, he thought with just a bite of frustration, it wasn't like he had much time to be choosy. Alright, so maybe his Nintendo 3DSXL wasn't going to be of much use out here in the ruins of modern civilisation. Where would he charge it, exactly? And his Pokedex… really? On a more sensible note, he did bring his favourite Pikachu beanie with the awesome little Pokeballs dangling from it, which had been keeping his head and ears warm at night.

A Channel Awesome sweater was also in the bag, for extra cold nights spent unwillingly under the stars, and his wallet had had enough cash left in it to barter with another drifter (presumably a man more optimistic of the brisk return of America's economy) for a week's supply of muesli bars to add to the jar of peanut butter, two bags of potato chips and a little plastic bottle of Coke he'd been refilling with water from faucets in peoples' backyards.

His sword, too, had proved itself useful against Profion only yesterday afternoon, as well as for chopping his way through boards and locks like a common axe. Despite the fact that it had only been a replica when he'd bought it at Comic-con, and had been about as sharp as a donut, it was retaining its magically-come-by super-sharpness remarkably well for all the wear Neige was putting it through.

He kicked an errant steering wheel out of his path now, watching it catch the rim of the grass merging with the tarmac and setting off at a steady roll across the brown dirt. It fetched up against a scrubby little bush and fell flat on its side. Neige smiled grimly, made to move on—

There was a rustle from the bush.

He paused, staring hard. Had that been a flash of white he'd spotted between the withering brown sticks? The sun was making spots on his vision, blurring it, making it hard to see…

He shook his head. He was imagining things. These last sleepless weeks had got the best of him, as they'd been threatening to do since he left the security of his internet- no, electricity- wait, plumbing- well. His house, anyway.

The sun was at its highest point. Shadows of the cars were stretched out deformedly, like they'd been pressed through a noodle maker and were reaching out to the end of the road, so there wasn't much shade for Neige to settle in for a restful moment. He took refuge instead in a family van, the sort with the doors that slide back. As he settled across the wide front seat, he noticed a couple of empty baby seats in the back; guilt sliced through him like his sword. Families had had to flee in terror because of him. Because he couldn't leave well enough alone, because he just had to finish that review…

He shuddered and pulled his phone out of his jeans' pocket. He waited impatiently for it to turn on – though he wasn't sure why, as it wasn't like he had to be anywhere. When the screen finally flickered to life, it was with a flashing red warning that it was at its lowest power bar. He glanced longingly at the USB charger in the dashboard of the van, beating himself up mentally for pausing long enough at home to remember his DS charger but not his effing phone charger. In a moment of desperation five days before when he'd managed to secure a backup power generator from some guy's garden shed, he'd tried forcing the DS charger into his phone socket, only to end up snapping something inside the phone. Now even if he should stumble across a charger in a house to fit, it wouldn't work.

 _Way to go, Neige,_ he thought bitterly, swiping his fingers across the apps screen and bringing up Maps. He could only connect with the emergency GPS satellite, so it was slow-going, but he found he was currently on the southbound highway leading out of California altogether. Another couple of hundred miles and he'd be in Mexico.

 _Might as well go and see what havoc's been wrought down south,_ he thought miserably, turning his phone off again to preserve battery and stuffing it back into his pocket. He fished around in his bag for his water bottle and took a swig, noting with mild alarm that it was nearly three-quarters empty, and helped himself to a muesli bar before climbing back out of the van.

He didn't make it three steps before something small, red and fluttery launched itself at his face from nowhere.

" _Holy_ —!" he shouted, ducking as the object swerved gracelessly above his head and made a second attempt at his eyes. He quickly tugged his backpack over his head and dashed for the nearest car, sliding behind it like he was trying to capture a base in baseball.

The red thing followed him. It landed in a heap of feathers and indignant squawks by his feet, struggling to stand; Neige backed up as far as he could go— which wasn't far, considering he'd chosen a car encircled by other wrecks. Fortunately, however – or unfortunately, as he was starting to deduce – he didn't need to be afraid. It was with an irritable sinking in the pit of his stomach that he watched the thing right itself and fluff its feathers at him imperiously.

"Delibird," he groaned.

The Delibird squawked a greeting. Its black eyes peered at him brightly from a white face; its belly was red and white, and its tail, Neige noted with a sudden spike of interest, was curled tightly around something bulky.

"That's right," he said, more to himself than the Pokémon. "You carry stuff in your tail, don't you? Food to lost travellers and all that."

Delibird squawked a third time and trotted forward proudly. It turned its back on Neige when it reached his sneakers and unfurled its tail; instead of food, a reasonably sized packet of aspirins, antibiotics and Band-Aids tipped onto the hot tarmac. Neige could barely believe it. He scooped them up, studying them carefully. He eyed the Delibird suspiciously.

"What's the deal?" he asked. Then another thought struck him. "Also, aren't you supposed to live in the mountains? _Icy_ mountains?"

Delibird ruffled his feathers, bowing his head against the sun. Neige glanced up at the cloudless sky, felt the warmth of the sun on his bare arms and face. Most likely the Pokémon had ended up here because this was where the Wall had shattered. It wasn't like he had a choice where he was ejected onto real!Earth, as Neige had taken to dubbing it in his head.

"Well, uh… thanks." Neige carefully placed the medicines in his backpack and zipped it up again. Slowly, aware of the way Delibird stared at him the whole time, he climbed to his feet. "No idea why you gave these to me specifically or whatever, but uh… Yeah. It doesn't really matter." He paused as Delibird cocked his head. Neige cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm, um… I'm going this way." He pointed south and made to step around Delibird. "Nice meeting you."

He'd barely made it ten steps down the road when he was aware of a tug at his shoelace. He wasn't surprised when he glanced down to see Delibird pecking at it, but he was a little surprised when he saw Delibird's wing pointing north—back the way he'd come.

"You're going north?"

Delibird nodded.

"Oh. Great. Guess I'll see you around, then."

But Neige wasn't going anywhere, apparently. Delibird gave an impatient squawk and flew up to his shoulder, where he proceeded to peck at his left ear.

"Ouch! What, you want me to go north too?"

Delibird nodded again.

"But I just came from there! You expect me to walk all that way again?"

Apparently Delibird expected exactly that, because he didn't let go of Neige's ear until he'd turned around with a grumble and started back up the road.

"It's a good job I don't have a destination in mind, you know," he told the Pokémon.

Delibird gave what sounded eerily like a derisive laugh. All Neige could think was: _Why couldn't I have been found by Charizard? Pikachu? Even Gyrados, for Pete's sake?_

As it was, it was just him and Delibird, making their slow way north into the ruins of civilisation they'd just abandoned.

* * *

 _*Haha, spellcheck made me change that so it had the French little squiggle above the 'e'… Go MS Word._

 _OH YEAH. Forgot to mention up there. Ah tried me best at all them tricky Americanisms, like 'faucet' instead o' 'tap', but I prob'ly got half of 'em wrong anyway, so sorry 'bout that… (Not really, but I can pretend.)_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Chapter three already! Whoo! A personal record! Too bad it's for the story nobody reads, haha. Anyway. Uh... enjoy (or don't), review (or don't), send me stinkbombs through PM (bear in mind there_ are _nicer ways to tell me I need to practice my writing a bit more, though), I don't really mind. I'm writing this for me, but you're more than welcome to tag along. It's also for Neige, but. If he ever deigns to read it... (Notice me, senpai!) Heheh... This is pointless now so I'll just let you get on... *smiles contritely and waves you on*_

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE**

Delibird was proving a most irritating companion. The first hour or so spent trudging back up the highway was tolerable; Neige had pretended to dodge the stationary cars and had shared sips of water from his plastic bottle with the little Pokémon whenever it squawked particularly loudly. By the time an hour and half had stolen itself away however, along with what little good humour remained in both him and the previously sunny weather, he was in no mood to do anything other than kick at rusted hubcabs as he passed them, causing more than a few to topple to the tarmac.

Every now and again a pair (and occasionally a triplet) of eyes would peer brightly at him from beneath a car, blink once and vanish. Flocks of flying Pokémon trailed across the sky in elegant formations, and once, as he was busy trying to un-develop a nervous tick that had started every time Delibird broke out into a series of happy, tuneful squawks, he passed a man hidden under a thick black cloak that swished about his feet; they nodded politely to one another, and besides the quick flash of what was clearly a wand tucked in the stranger's fist as it emerged from the cloak, he might have just been another escapee of the ruin of an old life.

"SQUAWK!" said Delibird cheerily, as they passed an exit to a gas station with most of its roof caved in. "SQUAWK!"

"Errrrgh… Your body isn't reacting well to our world, is it? You're, like, half-bird, half Pokémon right now."

"SQUAWK!" said Delibird, nodding seriously. Neige winced and pulled his cap lower over his eyes, wishing it covered his ears too. It was his Pokémon league cap— his favourite, the one he showed off proudly in most of his Pokémon-related reviews. Now his panicked, heat-of-the moment choice of head apparel made him want to deliberately faceplant. Well, bodyplant, really. Onto the road still sticky with the California heat that lingered even in the face of the oncoming storm clouds brewing blackly on the horizon. And then never move again.

"You're too small for a Delibird," Neige continued. He needed to speak, even if his ears were still ringing. He needed to hear words. Conversation. He wanted to stay sane while he did… whatever it was he needed to do to fix things. "And you can't say your name. But everything else… your tail, your personality-"

"SQUAAAAWK!"

Neige shuddered. Delibird flapped his wings, a little indignantly.

"It can't be just you," he mused, more to himself than the Pokémon. "The others who don't belong here, they must all have limitations too. Things our laws of physics just won't allow, maybe."

For the first time, Delibird did not reply to this, and Neige, seeing it as a slightly uplifting sign, decided not to ruin it and be silent too.

He was staring miserably at the gathering storm hugging the rim of the earth, peeking almost shyly above the faraway tips of city spires, when he saw the flash of orange flame amongst the grey clouds. He narrowed his eyes, as if that would zoom his vision any closer— there! It happened again! And was it just his imagination, or was there a dark shape in amongst the bleary grey? Another flash of bright fire, and this time… yes, if his plain human, non-zoomed-in eyes were indeed telling him the truth, the shadow was directly behind it. Its source, in fact.

"SQUAWK!" said Delibird. His wing clipped Neige around the ear as he fluttered to a more comfortable position on his shoulder. "SQUAWK!"

Neige rubbed his ear as he watched the faraway storm, attempting in vain to soothe his aching eardrum. Why, oh, why hadn't he brought his iPod? His earbuds? Even the Homer Simpson earmuffs that were a joke present from his sister one Christmas would have been welcome at this point.

His sister. The thought brought on a twist of anxiety deep in his stomach. Where was she now? She'd escaped her home, that much was certain. Before the communications systems went down, he'd got one text from her: _Heading south. Family safe. Will text later to organise time and place to kill you for starting this. (It was you. I know it was.)_

Except all methods of communication except face-to-face talking and pigeon messaging had gone down not long after that, so of course he'd never heard another word from her. _Family safe_. Those two words had kept him strong while he battled his way through fictional villains and minions on his own journey south. It was a very half-hearted journey, though; without any further hints as to her location, and no incoming messages to steer him in the right direction, his sister might as well be headed for Australia for all he knew. As there'd been no time for organised military evacuations of the entire freaking country, most people to just scattered and took their own chances against things that, by rights, should not exist. With no official gathering points – and therefore, no leads – the odds of meeting up with her coincidentally were slim to none.

Perhaps that's why he'd been so compliant when Delibird had arrived with much-needed supplies and directed him north—towards the heart of the action, the place where he'd unleased upon the most unsuspecting world a danger it had never anticipated and certainly had no idea how to fight. If he couldn't take refuge with his family, perhaps he – as the Bringer-About of the End of the World (he felt it was a title requiring by necessity the capitalisation of its key words in his mind) – might actually do something about putting an end to it.

The first splatters of rain arrived with the early evening. Daylight lost some of its bite as the first dark clouds scudded overhead, and his sword seemed to grow heavier at his waist under the weight of the sudden chill permeating the air. The smell of wet grass and smoke grew thicker as well, but Neige figured that was only to be expected as he approached the vicinity of suburbia.

Houses were spaced far apart now, some distance back from the highway that had merged into two lanes a mile back. As the rain was starting to pelt down in earnest, Neige decided now was a good as time as any to find a place to rest for the night. All too aware of the sting of Delibird's claws in his shoulder as they both hunched into their bodies, he hurried down the dirt driveway of the nearest house. The front door wasn't broken, but it was wide open; the space beyond it was dark and not at all welcoming. A couple of steps inside, and a couple more moments to allow his eyes time to adjust to the drab lighting, proved that whoever had previously lived here left in a great hurry.

 _Just like everybody else in America,_ Neige thought glumly, kicking aside a rolled up pair of socks and a child's recorder that were lying at his feet. _Wonder if they made it to Peru or something. If even there is safe these days. Not that there's any way to tell without the news._

Deciding to explore a little, he took the first door on his left and found himself in a sitting room. A sofa and a couple of armchairs faced a TV; clothes and cans and even books were scattered about the place, as if their owners had packed them in a fit of panic and then, just as thoughtlessly, tossed them out again to make room for something slightly more important. He shucked his backpack higher on his back; he thought he knew exactly how they'd felt.

Delibird flew off his shoulder – _'Finally,'_ thought Neige – and started pecking at various objects, scratching at them curiously with his claws. Neige left him to it and followed the main corridor down to its end, where he found a kitchen with all its cabinets wide open and the perishable food that the previous owners realised wouldn't last on a trek to safety rotting on the benches or in the open, dark fridge.

Also on the ground floor were a dining room, just off the kitchen (all of the seats were missing their cushions for some reason Neige couldn't fathom) and a study; nothing seemed to have been touched in there. Upstairs were the bedrooms and the bathroom. There were three bedrooms: the parents' and two kids'. The parents' room was where he'd bunk tonight, he thought; he dumped his backpack on the end of the unmade bed and rubbed his sore shoulders. Before he dug out his paltry dinner of stale potato chips and dregs of water, though, he wanted to check out the bedroom that had probably once belonged to a little boy. It was stupid of him to think, but some hopeful part of him couldn't help but wonder if he had left anything worth keeping behind him when he'd fled. Something like… a Nintendo game, perhaps?

The walls of the boy's room, lacking any loving parental touch, were fading fast; its blue paint was peeling off in curls, and the dinosaur frieze along the rim of the walls were they touched the ceiling were smeared with… dirt? No, Neige thought, stepping closer. It was soot.

Something crunched under his foot, and he glanced down, expecting to see a splintered wooden toy. Instead, he found himself staring at the still-smouldering remains of a fire.

"Holy-!" he jumped back into the doorway, clutched the jamb. He strained his ears for the sound of any nearby humans; he heard nothing but the whistling of the wind outside the window and the _patter patter_ of angry raindrops against the glass. He peered more closely at the fire: pieces of the wooden furniture in the room had been broken up and laid carefully across each other, ringed by mossy stones obviously brought in from outside.

Crumbs littered the singed carpet around the fire. Cooked and splintered pieces of bone, too; obviously this person hadn't had any trouble keeping himself/herself fed.

The child-sized bed was the only thing left untouched in the whole room. Its covers were rumpled, obviously slept in; carefully, easily, Neige picked his way across to it, feeling the sheets. They were cool to the touch. He peered up at the soot gathered on the ceiling again, bent to touch the fire. The fire was cold, but the soot was heavy on the paint. Feeling like Sherlock Holmes, he pushed himself to his feet again, deducing that this old house was a base of operations for somebody, and that they'd been gone long enough for the bed and fire to grow cold, but would probably be back to add more soot to the collection gathering above Neige's head.

Now he was left with a choice. He could stay, trust fate to give him one good hand out of a hundred bad ones, hope that this person might just be an ally in his barely-formed quest for redemption and heroism. On the other hand…

Maybe it was best if he just left now. This wasn't the only abandoned house along the road; and besides, even with the storm now rattling the windows in the panes, as if goading him to come out and play, he figured he didn't really want to take his chances if he'd somehow stumbled onto an Orc camp from Lord of the Rings or some equally terrifying monster's lair.

"Delibird," he called, hurrying quickly to the parents' room to fetch up his backpack again. His shoulders burned under the familiar weight, but he did his best to put it at the back of his mind as he re-emerged into the hallway. "Delibird, don't get too attached to this place, we've got to get go—"

He stopped dead, his hand halfway to the zip of his backpack to fetch his sweater. Standing at the head of the stairs, his foot stalled almost comically in the air above the final step onto the landing, was a boy. The first thing Neige noticed about him – besides the position of his feet, anyway – was his outfit. Brown, all of it, and exceedingly patched and _old_ : oversized linen shirt, simple and archaic in design, basic trousers and soft leather shoes. His hair was much like Neige's own, if a bit longer; sandy, dripping from the storm and flopping into his eyes so that he seemed to blink in slow motion from under his straight fringe.

All of this he could deal with, Neige figured. This – a boy who seemed to have jumped straight from a still frame of a fantasy movie, lingering on the top step of a distinctly modern house probably built not long after Neige was born – would have been simple, downright easy in fact, to accept. Had it not been for the distinctly curved hunting bow slung over the boy's shoulder, bumping against a leather quiver stuffed full of arrows, anyway. An empty string bag was clutched in the boy's hand, swinging forlornly and completely forgotten as the two stared at one another. This kid clearly wasn't from around here.

"Who are you?" They asked together. Their answers were delivered just as simultaneously; neither heard the other's answer. Neige licked his lips. The boy finally dropped his foot.

"My name's Neige," Neige said quickly, before the other boy spoke. "Il Neige."

"You're not from Alagaesia either, are you?" asked the boy, flicking his wet fringe from his eyes in a way that struck Neige as kind of teenage-girl-y. It was the word 'Alagaesia' that made it click.

"Eragon?" he ventured. The boy's – Eragon's – eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"How have you come by my name?" he asked. His fingers tensed, moved an inch closer to his bow. "Are you the one who brought me here? For what purpose? Did you envy the link between Saphira and I from afar? Is it you who's taken my dragon away? Where is she? Is she alive? I can't sense her in this realm. Return me to her!"

This was all spoken very fast, and the bow had somehow moved closer to his hands with every question. Neige threw up his hands placatingly.

"Chill, Eragon! Er, that is—calm down. Please." He gestured exhaustedly to the boy's room. "You might want to sit down while I explain all this…"


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Yeah, so… It only took four chapters to get around to explaining how all this started, and what Neige intends to do about it. Heh. This is why I usually don't show people my stuff until way past the editing phase. I'm really not entirely happy with this one, but I can't put my finger on what exactly is wrong... Someone wanna give me some pointers? *crickets* Ah. Oh well. Good practice for letting people see my imperfections... and other such psychological trollop that's really just a cover for my laziness/desperate cry for attention._

 _... What? *looks away shiftily*_

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

The bed was a good a place as any to sit and explain. Neige perched himself right on its edge, Delibird – who had flapped upstairs to see what all the hubbub was about – settled on his knees. Neige stroked his feathery head idly as he watched Eragon setting down his wooden bow and empty bag, followed his movements as the other sandy-haired boy stoked up the ashes of the dead fire.

"Brisingr," Eragon muttered, glaring hard at the criss-cross of splinters. The tiniest wisp of fire bloomed right in the heart of the pit, only to sputter out of life when Delibird flapped his wings excitedly. Eragon huffed. " _Brisingr!_ "

A slightly sturdier flame flickered under the wood; Neige watched, fascinated despite himself, as it caught, spread steadily to the rest of the splinters.

Eragon sat back and wiped his damp brow. His eyebrows were knitted low over his brown eyes. "This has been much harder since leaving Alagaesia," he said. "Your realm is not compatible with the magic of the ancient language, it seems."

"Well, at least we're warmer, I guess," Neige said. Delibird hopped off his knees and snuggled up the side of the fire, just shy of its reaching yellow fingers.

"Indeed. Shame I could not catch us something to eat, as well." Eragon eyed his empty bag, and then turned, shaking his wet hair. A flash of lighting outside made the room glow gold for a split second, and the adjoining thunder blocked the sound of Neige's rumbling stomach. His dwindling supplies called out to him from his bag, but for some reason he didn't want to mention them just yet. Not until he could be sure he could trust this guy he'd only ever seen in a movie.

"Never mind that now, though," Eragon continued, apparently not noticing the flash of guilt his voice had suddenly induced on Neige's face. "Tell me how I've come to be here… and without my dragon."

"Ah. Yeah. This story." Neige scratched the back of his neck. Readjusted his bag's and sword's position behind him on the bed. Tugged his cap low over his face. Ran out of ways to stall. "Well, you see… ah… do you know about this thing called the Fourth Wall?"

"No," Eragon said.

"Of course not," Neige sighed. "Didn't think you did. Okay, well, in our world, we have movies. They're, like, well, they're moving pictures. On a screen. Or a wall. Well, where they are doesn't really matter. God, I'm bad at this…"

"Continue," Eragon said. His back was to the growing fire, and its shadows made his face seem longer somehow. More intimidating. And were his ears kind of pointy for a human kid's?

"Well," Neige said again, making a mental note not to use the word 'well' for another fifty years at least, "in movies, a bunch of people in costumes make pretend that they're acting out stories—"

"You mean actors?" Eragon said, smiling slightly like Neige was amusing him. "We have those in Alagaesia too. They act in plays."

"That's it exactly!" Neige said, seizing the similarity and wondering how he hadn't thought of it. He really _was_ bad at this, he thought. "A movie is just a play up on a screen."

"And how does that affect me?"

"Uh… well, you were in a movie. About you. Called Eragon. After you. Obviously."

Eragon looked impressed. "Really? So… so you know all about me already?" He flicked his hair back again, sat up a bit straighter.

"Uh, kind of. But that's not really the point. The point is, between every movie – or story, or game, or whatever – there's a Fourth Wall separating our world from the world of the story. And I guess… uh… all of them kind of broke. Because of… me."

He glanced quickly at his worn sneaker tips, not wanting to see Eragon's accusing stare. But when he chanced a quick look upwards, he was surprised to see Eragon was still staring at him like he held all the secrets of the universe in his little finger.

"If you've seen me before, in this 'movie' about myself, then you'll know my mother. Was she beautiful?"

This was not what Neige had expected. "Um. What?"

"Beautiful. You know, appealing. Pretty. I was left on my uncle's farm as a baby, you know. She disappeared back to gods-know where afterwards, and up until a couple of months ago I was a farm boy, living off the land and training with my cousin, Roran."

Even Delibird raised his feathery brow ridge. Neige's mouth hung open slightly. He hadn't asked for any of that information, and yet…

"With swords," Eragon added thoughtfully, but it didn't make Neige's lips snap shut any quicker. "I can spar with the best of them now. I also learned to read in a week."

For a long time, Neige could think of nothing to say. He didn't remember seeing any of this in the movie – especially the bit about him learning to read in a week – but then maybe movie-Eragon took some inspiration from book-Eragon. It had happened in movies before, however rarely.

"Okay. Well, yeah. Anyway. Now the Fourth Walls are broken and I need to find a way to send everyone back into their own worlds—and keep them there. And make sure my sister is alright."

"Your sister?" Eragon asked. It seemed he was finally paying attention, though not to the part that Neige probably would have preferred. In fact, he was starting to get just a hint of a narcissistic vibe from this guy.

"Yeah. You know, the child your parents have before or after you who is a female."

Eragon didn't deign to respond to this. Neige huffed.

"Don't you want to know how I plan to fix things?" he asked irritably.

"Pray explain the plan to me," Eragon said.

"I can't."

"Why ever not?"

"Because I don't have a plan."

"Then why-?"

"Because I'm stuck and I broke the world and I need to complain and you're the only one I can complain _to_." Neige said all this in a big rush, burying his face in his hands.

Eragon poked impassively at the fire again with an errant stick to keep it from going out.

"Perhaps you ought to start at the beginning," he suggested. "How did all this start? What did you do that made it happen?"

 _Oh joy,_ thought Neige. _I couldn't even explain movies well. How am I going to explain reviewing?_

"Well, my job is to basically talk about these movies. I analyse them. Except occasionally, a character will say or do something to break down the Fourth Wall."

Eragon tilted his head like a curious cat. Shouldn't he have some kind of reaction to all this? It was kind of unnatural, Neige thought. "How?"

"By addressing me. Us. The audience. They acknowledge that we are out here watching their every move. And that shatters the Wall."

Eragon thought about this. He turned to the fire, the flames making shadows dance in the hollows of his cheeks, in the pockets under his eyes. He did look significantly thinner than he did in the movie; his hair, now it was drying, was hanging in tangled clumps around his face. His hems needed patching, and the fabric on his elbows and knees was wearing so thin Neige could see his pale, scratched skin through it.

Neige cleared his throat in the silence, suddenly feeling the need to fill it with something.

"It was Team Rocket that did it."

"Team Rocket?"

"Yeah. They're, uh, kind of bad guys. In this series called Pokémon. I don't think there's much point in explaining any further than that, to you, anyway. Except that they're _really_ friggin'annoying. They broke the Fourth Wall all the time in my previous series, but I guess there was a limited supply…"

Eragon stared at the fire again. "It sounds to me as though you're rather stymied."

 _Stymied?_ Neige thought. _Weird word choice…_

"I guess so."

Another moment of silence followed. Then Eragon climbed to his feet. He scooped his bag and bow from where he left them in the corner and made his way silently to the door.

"Hey," Neige said, glancing up at him in surprise. "Where are you going?"

Eragon held up the bag and smiled slightly. "We need to eat if we're going to claim ultimate victory, correct?" Then he turned and walked down the hallway. Neige heard his footsteps on the stairs, then in the hall. Then the front door opened, letting in a great rush of noise and wind, and it snapped shut heavily behind him, leaving Delibird and Neige alone in the house to remark silently on how their luck may have finally just turned.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Ahahaha... Five chapters... This must be some sort of record for me. My thanks to MiscellaneousSoup for reviewing (and two other people, too? My computer says three people have reviewed but only one is showing up so... ?) In any case, thanks to you guys, and I hope everyone's had a happy new year. :D_

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

Neige got too hungry waiting for Eragon to come back, so he fished one of his last packet of chips from his bag and ate it as slowly as his growling stomach would allow. He stuffed the empty packet into the fire with the poking stick before heading for the bathroom, looking for the shower. He was surprised when the water came out of the pipes sputtering, but warm. He didn't have any clean clothes to change into afterwards, so he returned to the bedroom in his jeans, his dirty shirt and sneakers balled against his chest. He dug through his bag for his sweater and Pikachu hat and climbed into bed, fully clothed and shivering.

The wind was picking up substantially outside, and through time-worn gaps in the framework chilly drafts made their way inside, setting the flames flickering. He propped the pillow up against the wall and leant back on it, determined not to fall asleep until Eragon returned with food.

From here, he could see a sliver of the twilight sky outside the window. Black clouds pressed heavily over California, pelting the glass with rain. The roof echoed with its drumming, and Neige could only think how he wouldn't be able to hear Eragon approach until he was at the door.

Delibird wasn't in the room; he'd wandered out some time after Eragon had left to explore the house. Or find supplies. Or maybe even use the bathroom, for all Neige could understand his 'SQUAWK!' of departure. Neige was alone once again, in a strange bed in a stranger's house, with only his bag and sword propped against the wall at his side. For months it had been like this while he lived on the run. Every so often, his hiding place would be shared by other escapees of the Great Insanity, but they'd always leave him when they learned of his identity. His picture was most places in this desolate wasteland that was previously known as California. Crosshatched onto parchment and pinned with arrows onto trees and signposts; black-and-white moving photographs stuck with magic onto brick walls that winked at him as he passed them; hovering in the sky some nights like a giant bat signal with his name and age beneath it. Eventually he stopped sharing his name with them, but that only made them fear him more if they didn't by some miracle recognise him already, hastening their departure. Nobody wanted to be near the guy who was being hunted by fiction's evillest bad guys.

He shifted deeper under the Buzz Lightyear bedspread, curling up on his side, his head resting at an awkward angle against the upright pillow. No, he thought miserably, it had been a lonely punishment for starting the apocalypse. It hadn't got much better when the signs asking for his capture started displaying prices beneath them. They were in gold pieces and food, not dollars, but even so, anything at all went a long way in the end-of-the-world's broken economy. Now not only were people avoiding him, but some even went out of their way to try and capture him for the reward.

Neige could only figure that some sort of rudimentary villainous gang had started in real!Earth to begin offering money. They must've been doing well; the incident at the Burger King with Profion wasn't the first time a villain on the fringes had chased him down to improve their lot in this new world. Neige just wished he knew exactly what he was fighting to get the world back into its original non-invaded state.

His chin nodded towards his chest. Sleepily, he registered the light tapping of branches against the window, the dimming of the firelight as time slipped in rapid swirls through his fingers…

What felt like a second later, amidst a cacophony of sound, something tore sharply at his face. His ears were ringing with the noise and the pain of it and he shot up, flinging something small and red and feathery at the opposite wall where it bounced and lay still. The fire was dead, now, and sunlight was trickling in through the window— the open window, Neige noticed, through which Eragon was climbing. His game bag swung heavily at his side as he scrambled up over the ledge, reaching wildly around for his bow and quiver.

"Protect the doors!" he shouted at Neige who, half-drunk with sleep and still wearing his woollen Pikachu cap, stumbled out of bed and tripped over the corner of the blanket.

"What's goin' on?" he asked blearily, picking himself up and slamming the bedroom door closed on the empty hallway. He salvaged a piece of wood to jamb between the handle and the dresser next to it, using his body weight to lever it shut against an enemy that clearly hadn't got that far yet.

At the window, Eragon was already firing arrows outside. He seemed to have three hands as he retrieved arrows, nocked them and fired them all in one rapid movement. An odd few sent off a firey blue flare of light upon hitting the ground outside.

"We're under attack," Eragon said grimly.

The words were barely out of his mouth before loud shots rang out against the side of the house. Neige yelled and ducked as the light bulb was blasted into a thousand shattered pieces, scattering frosted glass onto their heads.

"Who the hell's attacking us?" Neige shouted over the whistling ringing of gunfire. Eragon shrugged and kept shooting. He didn't look very scared at all. Was he used to this? Or was he usually just so secure in his safety around his dragon that he'd forgotten he was a little less invulnerable without her?

"Come out, little ones," came a voice from outside. The gunfire stopped momentarily, and Eragon lowered his bow a little. "We won't hurt you, we promise."

Neige frowned, leant away from the door slightly. "Is that…?"

"Don't make me come up there, fellas," the voice came again, but this time the end was cut off by the sounds of the door being slammed against. Neige swallowed a cry of panic and threw himself against the door, forcing it shut with his shoulder.

"What is your purpose in harassing us?" Eragon shouted down. He was standing in full view in the window, his bow clutched tightly in his hands. Neige wanted to shout to him to move out of shooting range whilst negotiating at least, but the voice started talking again.

"Our purpose, young man, is that we want to leave here with your friend. You can remain unharmed if you only do as we ask."

"And how did you know where he was?" Eragon asked, not missing a beat. "Do you know him?"

"Not personally, no," the voice said. "But he knows us."

Eragon glanced up at Neige, looking unnervingly more curious than frightened. "Old friends of yours?"

"Not in the least," Neige said. "But… that sounds creepily like Christopher Walken."

"It's Sal, actually," the voice replied cheerfully. "I'm a new crime boss here in… well, I've been _told_ it's California, but it don't look exactly as I remember it from my holidays back in my Brooklyn days. I hear you're to thank for that? And for this golden opportunity presented to me and my cohorts in bringing you in for an exorbitant amount?"

"Bringing me in to _who_?" Neige called back. The voice, of course, belonged to Christopher Walken in his role as Sal, the crime-boss step-dad from _Kangaroo Jack_ , but now was not the time to be amused by anything about the situation.

" _Our_ boss," Sal replied cryptically. "Now are you coming with us nicely, or do we have to force you?"

There was a split second's pause before the crack of gunfire split the early morning. The glass in the open window shattered, and the ceiling above Neige rained down charred little bits of plaster that crumbled away from the bullet-sized hole.

The door swung hard against Neige's shoulder and he backed away, seized with a sudden desire to do more than just hole up and wait for the ambush. He dashed back to the bed where he'd left his bag and sword and snatched them both up. Moving to the window, he pushed Eragon aside and took in the scene below him. On the damp front yard was a group of five or so men in suits. Christopher Walken was at the head of the group; his suit was the sharpest, greyest one of the lot, and his deep-set eyes were smiling pleasantly beneath his greying gelled-back hair. A cigar rolled casually between his lips. Neige could almost be forgiven for thinking he was just dropping by to return a casserole dish for his socialite wife on the way to work in an advertising agency. One from the sixties.

Neige swallowed, forcing more bravery into his voice than he felt. "Where is your boss? I'll go to him myself."

Sal's grin widened. "Oh no. We're taking you in, and we're getting paid for the trouble. Boys, take aim at the other one, the one with the pathetic excuse for a gun. Nice hat, by the way," he added to Neige. Neige scowled and whipped the beanie off his head, stuffing it into his bag.

"Tell me where your boss is, or I'll hit you with a blast from this." He raised his sword. The gangsters took one look at it and started chuckling. Eragon took the opportunity and backed away from the window.

"What do you plan on doing with that, kid?" Sal asked with a grin. "Throw it at us?"

"Shoot me and see what happens."

Sal raised an eyebrow, and Neige tried desperately to quell the shaking of his hands, the feeling that he was going to throw up over the windowsill. What was he thinking? He thought back to the Burger King incident, tried reassuring himself that it had worked once. Still, if this went wrong…

Behind them, the door reverberated with another slam of a mobster's shoulder. Eragon glanced askance at Neige.

"I pray your plans are true," he said, disappearing out of his vision to deal with the door.

"So do I," Neige muttered.

Sal cocked his head to the side, puffing on his cigar. "So what's it to be, kid? Come with us alive… or full of holes?"

"The holier the better," Neige heard himself say. He barely had time to react when Sal nodded to his men and their guns whistled up, aiming straight at his face. A barrage of explosions nearly blinded him and he ducked, chopping madly through the air, feeling the blade connect with two or three little _pings!_ of metal. Screams of pain echoed through the still morning air, and Neige glanced down in hopeful surprise. Three of the five mobsters were on the ground, either not moving or cradling bleeding limbs. Sal and the remaining man were staring at them, wide-eyed. The cigar fell noiselessly to the grass.

"Ha _ha!_ " Neige cried. "Thank you, Legend of Zelda tactics!"

The men whipped their faces up to him, scowling. Neige knew now was the best time to get out. He ran to where Delibird was slumped dazedly against the wall and scooped him up before turning to the door.

"Come on, Eragon, it's time to—"

The door was open, and Eragon – as well as the mobster – were nowhere to be seen.

"Ah… great."

Two shots blasted holes in the roof above his head and he ducked, cringing. Delibird squawked piteously in his arms.

"Hold on, Delibird, we're getting out of here."

And so saying, he took a deep breath, hoped wildly that nobody was on the other side of the door, and charged through with his head bowed.


	6. UPDATE :)

Hey guys.

So, I know it's been a while *cough* two whole months, chookster, _damn_ *cough* but since the subject of my story actually found my story *chokes and flails on overwhelming levels of pure awesomeness* I've been super self-conscious about everything I put down about him. Like, every time I go to start a new chapter I just think "WHAT IF IT'S NOT TRUE TO WHO HE IS/WHAT HE'D DO/RUINS EVERYTHING NOOO" and then I have a little panic and go and watch some more YouTube to calm down. Which, as I'm sure you guys are aware, is not a conducive way to go about writing. (I mean if it was, I'd already be a super-stellar best-selling author by now… ahehe…)

So yeah. Basically I'm updating to let anybody who actually reads my little tale why there haven't been any more chapters of late, and if anybody _would_ care to read more, please don't be shy! Write me, review, like, do whatever you must to let me know it's worth rousing the terrified fangirl inside!

Also Delibird says hello.

With much love – and Pokémon –

Chookster. xxx


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